The Sundering
by Telentropy X
Summary: November 1983. Lucifer is cast from Heaven and Earth becomes the final battleground between Heaven and Hell. Mankind's survival hangs in the balance as humans are slaughtered by Demons who seek to exploit them and Angels who seek to exterminate them. Apocalypse AU
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hihi! So, I debated pretty heavily on whether to post this or not and I decided, what the heck. Fair warning, this will be a lengthy fic and it WILL be a while before I update. It will happen, rest assured, but I have other fics that I have to finish first. Prior commitments, promises of completion and all that jazz. But this was killing me, so I gave the plot bunny a carrot and maybe it will be happy for a while so I can fulfill my obligations and, therefore, dedicate my time to this one.

I love Supernatural! I have so many other fics (yeah, those fics I mentioned before?) that I have to finish and post.

Please, review and tell me what you think!

* * *

The Kansas night was cold and clear and the ground was already white with frost. Most of the lights were off in the two-story white house as the family inside prepared for bed. John Winchester stood in the kitchen, preparing a Coke Float for himself and Mary. He'd been working extra hours at the mechanic's shop ever since Sammy was born to ensure they had a decent financial cushion, just in case. Mary spent her days at home with their children and he felt they deserved a treat before bed.

The boys weren't difficult, in fact, it seemed to be the worst thing for four-year-old Dean to hear Sammy cry. More than once, when John had come home late, he'd found his older boy asleep in the crib with his brother. On those nights, Sammy never cried.

Mary walked from Sam's nursery to Dean's room and found the toddler sitting on the bed holding his favorite book, The Little Engine That Could.

"Dean," she admonished gently, smiling down into his green eyes. "We've already read our story tonight. It's time to sleep."

"Just one more?" Dean pleaded.

Mary sighed, unable to resist her son's wide-eyed hope. "One more," she agreed.

"Yes!" Dean cheered softly to avoid waking Sammy. He slid over to the far side of his bed so Mary could sit down. She cuddled him close and began the fourth reading of the story.

"Alright," she said once she had turned the last page. "Now, then, you go to sleep, mister," she tapped his nose and kissed his forehead.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and Dean looked up nervously.

Mary petted his hair. He'd hated storms ever since he was born and it pained her every time she saw him afraid. "Don't worry," she soothed. "It won't last long."

"I'm not afraid," he insisted in his tiny voice. "I just don't want Sammy to be afraid."

She nodded and kissed his cheek. "Sammy's fine," she promised. "You have Angels watching over you."

"Sammy too?" Dean asked.

"Sammy too," she told him and clicked off his lamp. "Good night, Dean."

Goo' night, Mommy," Dean yawned.

Thunder rumbled again, louder and longer this time and Mary checked on Sammy one more time. When she opened the door and saw John already by the crib, she smiled and went downstairs. She froze at the bottom of steps, horror filling her to the brim when she saw John standing in the kitchen.

John was in the kitchen. Who was in Sammy's nursery?

She ran back upstairs, taking the steps two at a time and crashed through the nursery door.

"Get away from my son!" she shrieked and threw herself at the shadowed figure, fear and protective, maternal anger fueling her attack.

"Mary?" John's panicked voice called from below.

"Mommy?"

The figure stumbled under her initial attack, then, Mary felt a searing pain rip across her stomach. She kept her grip on the shadow, wrestling it away from the crib even as she felt warm blood pouring down her front. In the hall light, she caught sight of yellow eyes.

The thunder suddenly stopped.

The yellow-eyed shadow gripped her throat in an iron grip. "You're too late," it hissed, its breath smelling of sulfur and death.

John's footsteps were pounding up the stairs. "Mary?!"

Her eyes were steel and she realized she was the one facing the window. She flexed her hand, preparing to drive her nails into those evil, yellow eyes and, if nothing else, force them both through the glass. Anything to get this monster away from her boys.

The sky ripped apart like fabric, blood-red lightning pounded the earth as a brilliant fireball plummeted to earth and an explosion shook the ground. She could see the shockwave coming, like liquid light, and everything it passed through burst into flames.

The shadow smiled—she could see the fangs in its mouth—and it hissed with pleasure.

"What's happening?" Horror tore the question from her bloody lips. The shockwave was still coming.

"War," the shadow breathed with delight and vanished.

Mary moved between the crib and the window just as John appeared in the doorway. He saw the shockwave crossing the street and the fire behind it. Summoning the last of her strength, Mary shoved the crib toward him and saw Dean run to John and clutch his leg in terror.

John scooped Sammy up into his arms and turned to shield both boys with his body.

The shockwave hit the house and Mary screamed.

"Dean! Take Sammy!" John shouted over the roar of the flames. He pushed the bundle of blankets into the toddler's arms. "Take Sammy and don't let go, no matter what!" He lifted both boys and ran through the house. The frame was groaning as the fire ate the supports and he smelled burned hair and skin. Where the front door had been, there was a gaping hole in the wall and John leaped through it. He hit the ground hard and felt an unimaginable pain licking up his right leg. He staggered and fell to the charred ground, twisting to land on his side to protect his sons. He smothered the flames with his hands, crying out as the pain spread to his fingers and palms.

Sammy was crying.

"Shhh, it's okay, Sammy," Dean's little voice soothed as he kept his head bowed over his brother. "It's okay, Sammy. Don't cry," he urged, his own voice broken with sobs.

John sat there in the yard. The scorched grass stabbed him like spines and the glowing embers and glistening, black vitrified dirt turned the entire area into a terrifying Hell-scape. All he could focus on was trying to remember how to breathe.

"Dad?" Dean's quiet voice pierced the fog of his panic. "Where is Mommy?"

John looked at his son helplessly and tears pooled in his eyes at his last memory of Mary. Then, his gaze hardened and he stood, snarling with the pain in his leg.

"Dean, take care of Sammy," he instructed firmly. "No matter what happens, take care of Sammy, do you understand? I'm gonna try and get her out."

"Yes sir," Dean said.

John walked toward the burning house and Dean's heart soared. Dad was going to get Mommy!

John halted his approach, confronted with the wall of flames and the unescapable truth.

Mary was gone.

 _If only I had gotten there sooner, she'd be alive right now!_

Dean's little heart clenched, squeezing more tears out of his eyes when he saw his dad stop in front of the house, knowing it only meant one thing.

Mommy was gone.

Tears slipped down John's face, evaporating in the heat of the fire. But the fire was inside of him too, burning, burning through him until there was nothing left to feed it, until he was empty and dark and cold.

"No! Go away! Leave Sammy alone!"

Dean's angry screams tore John's gaze away from the house, away from the fire and he saw a shadowed figure standing over his son. Dean was curled over on his side to keep Sammy away from…whoever it was. John moved toward his sons, his hands clenched into wrathful fists. The fire had burned the life out of him and in its place, in the darkness it left behind, was death. In one smooth movement, he stepped in front of his sons and drove his fist into the figure's face, snapping its head around.

"You," he seethed dangerously, "get away from my boys!"

The figure straightened and suddenly, it became a man. No, not a man…

"That's exactly what dear, sweet Mary said to me," he mocked, touching his split lip and suddenly, it wasn't split anymore. Yellow eyes smirked at him in the firelight. "Do you people have no sense of hospitality?"

John's entire being trembled with rage. "What are you talking about?"

The…thing, cocked its head as though it was amused by John's ignorance.

"You—you did this?!" John's voice was low with the strength of his rage and grief.

Yellow-eyes shrugged and cast an appraising glance over the blazing home. "Not entirely," he confessed, disappointment tinging his voice. "But, what can I say? Sometimes the best results are unexpected."

John could see nothing else but the monster before him. "I am going to rip you apart!" he growled and took a threatening step forward, reaching for the thing's throat.

"Ah-ah-ah," Yellow-eyes held up an admonishing hand. "Consider how this will end, Johnny-Boy." The fingers it held up suddenly lengthened into talons. "You've already lost Mary. What about your boys?"

John resisted the urge to look at his sons, refusing to take his eyes off of the threat. He could see the razor-sharp edges of those talons and he knew what the outcome of a fight would be. Then, his sons would be undefended. Dean would protect Sammy, he knew. But he could see, in those glittering yellow eyes, that this thing would have no qualms about ripping his little boy apart.

Yellow-eyes' thin mouth split in a smile that showed his fangs as he saw the thoughts crossing John's tortured eyes.

"I'm in a good mood today, John," he said and the hand returned to normal. "So, I'll let you walk away this time. Be glad for small favors. If I was in a bad mood, I'd leave you alive long enough to _watch_."

John backed away until his foot bumped Dean's shoe. He could hear the toddler murmuring softly to his whimpering baby brother. His grief was insurmountable and the loathing never left his eyes.

"This isn't over," he vowed darkly.

Yellow-eyes looked up at the black and red sky. "You're exactly right, John," he agreed amiable. "This is _far_ from over," he hissed gleefully and vanished in a cloud of black smoke.

Rain began to fall, thick and warm like blood and John knelt by his boys, bending over them to shield them from the downpour. The heat from the fires had easily overcome the November cold and for that, he was oddly grateful. He had nothing to protect his sons. No blankets, clothing, weapons and no one he could go to for help. He looked around, finally taking in the rest of the area. All of the houses were ablaze and there wasn't an intact vehicle to be seen. He could see deep, jagged fissures splitting the ground and in the distance, he could hear screams.

"Dean, get up," he ordered and pulled his son to his feet. Dean had yet to relinquish his grip on Sammy. "Come here." John led him toward the backyard, pulled two of the charred boards loose and nudged Dean through the fence. "I'm going to find help, okay. I need you to stay here and protect Sammy. Hide in the corner and don't come out unless I tell you to. Understand?"

Dean nodded, sniffling.

John took hold of his chin. "Stop crying, Dean," he ordered sharply. "Now isn't the time. You have to take care of Sammy. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir," Dean's voice trembled but he sniffed his tears back.

"Good. Stay here." With that, John replaced the boards and jogged toward the road. He knew there was no help to be found, but if he could just find a functioning car it would be enough.

* * *

Yellow-eyes walked to the edge of the crater, some twenty miles outside of Lawrence, Kansas. The ground was molten and hissing and fissures spread out from it like the strands of a spider's web. In the center, a being of white light, brilliant and cold, stood and slowly unfurled the six, midnight blue wings that grew from his back. Suddenly, a pulse of intense cold spread from him and the glowing crater turned black, the bubbling earth hardening into various shapes.

Yellow-eyes dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "My lord, Lucifer," he said in greeting.

The fallen Archangel suddenly stood before him, the chill of his Grace icing the ground around at his feet. "Azazel, what news do you have for me?" the deep, rumbling chime of his true voice shivered beneath his words.

For all his strength, Azazel knew that he could never withstand the full use of the Morningstar's true voice and he was grateful for the mercy.

"I have planted the seeds," he said. "Now, we must wait."

"Hm," Lucifer hummed and Azazel glanced up to see a lethal smile on the Archangel's face. "I eagerly await the harvest."

* * *

John carefully maneuvered the Impala across the broken ground and tried to avoid being seen as much as possible. Even though he was now armed, the last thing he needed was for someone to attack him for the vehicle. The shockwave had petered out a couple of miles past Lawrence, leaving only scorch marks and blistered paint. He'd left his car at a different mechanic's shop because his place of work didn't have the parts he'd needed. Now, he had his vehicle, a pistol in the glove compartment and he just needed to get some supplies for his sons. He drove to a little drugstore, parked the car at the back and walked toward the group of people standing outside.

He'd stopped in the shadows when he saw the weapons in their hands. Then, the looters had shown up. Warnings and threats were tossed back and forth and someone threw a brick into the window. Someone else opened fire and chaos ensued. John had slipped through the broken window and grabbed an armful of blankets, baby formula, a bottle and a pacifier, some bottled water and two unopened boxes of snack crackers and jerky. Then, for good measure, he grabbed the bag of money that was waiting to be dropped at the bank for the night.

He'd always sworn he would never be forced to become a thief, but then, he realized he'd never truly understood what it meant to have no choice.

He drove right up to the fence and got out without turning off the engine.

"Dean!" he shouted and pulled the boards free, terrified that his boys would be gone.

"Dad?" Dean's little voice came from the dark corner and baby Sammy cooed happily.

"Come on, Dean, we have to go," he bundled both boys into the backseat and drove off, the tires spitting dirt. He kept his eyes on the road, refusing to look in the rearview mirror at the charred remains of his perfect life.

 _This isn't over._


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Aahh, these are the chapters I like to write! Long ones! Whoops! Italics._ Sorry about that! Could've erased but, eh. So, hi again. Okay, so this update happened really quickly (somehow) so I kinda take back what I said at the beginning about it being a while. It may still be a while, but I have never abandoned a fic, so if you like, don't be afraid to follow, k? Ask anybody, I have spells where I update twice a day and then twice a month.

Enjoy!

BTW, I do shoutouts for reviews and I do reply! :) They make me very happy. (Read that in Cas' voice. You just did, didn't you?)

* * *

 _Twenty-two years later…_

The clouds exploded upward, expanding and converging over the land, darkening the sky with the threat of a violent thunderstorm. Beneath the thick evergreens, the weak light barely touched the ground and would have been nearly impossible for a human to travel without a flashlight.

Demons, however, suffered no such inhibition.

They crouched beneath the trees, at least forty of the twisted beings, hissing and cackling to each other as they prowled forward. For them, there was no difference between day and night, their black eyes needed no light to see, accustomed as they were to the caverns of Hell.

"Look at this one!" one of them called in harsh voice.

Several others hurried to investigate his find.

An Angel lay on the ground, his wings in tatters and his body horribly broken and ripped apart.

"Looks like Zulrach got hold of this one," one of them cackled.

Another one crouched and tore out a handful of soft, gray feathers.

"You didn't kill this one, Kish," one of them scolded.

Kish smirked at his trophy. "So? Help me stretch him out. The wings are my favorite."

Another one scowled distastefully. "Too much work," he said and took hold of the muscular arm, salivating hungrily. "This is the best part."

Yet another ripped open the Angel's shirt, preparing to carve his way into the lean stomach muscles.

Suddenly, a brilliant white light enveloped the trees, burning into the very ground. The demons screamed in agony and clawed at their faces as their eyes were seared inside their skulls. An instant later, thunder exploded around them and a figure landed in their midst with the force of a meteor strike. The shockwave rippled the ground like water, levelled all of the trees in a two-mile radius and ripped the demons apart.

The sound faded into echoes and the blinding flare was replaced by the gray light of the afternoon. Slowly, mournfully, the first drops of rain began to fall.

Castiel rose from where he'd landed, his knee stained with the dark earth of the forest and his massive, coal black wings flared in preparation for combat. He glanced around slowly, watching for survivors. He didn't expect to find any. Such low-tier demons had ceased to be a challenge for him long ago and even mid-tier demons stood no chance when he unleashed the full extent of his wrath. He strode forward, tucking his wings behind him now that there was no need to fight. The demons, what remained of them, were strewn amidst the fallen, blackened trees. Black blood and entrails smeared across the ground, sometimes all that was left. He stopped and stood over the torso of one of the foul creatures and he felt his wrath rekindle at the sight of the gray feathers in its hand. He snapped his fingers and the remains exploded wetly.

He moved to his fallen brother and knelt beside him. Amriel was the captain of a squadron that had gone missing a week before. Castiel had found each of them, all dead but none quite like this. Zulrach had obviously enjoyed himself.

Castiel gently turned Amriel's body and folded his broken wings against his sides, setting the shattered bones so that he could be buried properly, with honor.

Another presence pushed inquiringly against his Grace and he stood as the Angel landed nearby. "What news, Kimuel?" he asked grimly.

"I found Zulrach, Commander," the Angel reported with a salute. "He has entrenched himself within a human city and fortified it."

"Where?" Castiel asked, and the air seemed to twist in the quiet lethality of his anger.

Kimuel pointed. "Northeast," he replied.

Castiel nodded toward Amriel's body. "See that he is taken care of," he instructed.

"Castiel," Kimuel stepped forward as though to keep him from leaving.

Castiel spared him a dark, warning glance. "Yes?"

Kimuel stepped back again and nodded an apology.

Castiel spread his wings and took to the air without another word. The wind and rain buffeted him and lightning cracked the air between the clouds and the ground. When he felt the abysmal presence of demons, he landed, not wishing to be seen. He walked the rest of the way and crested a hill that overlooked the city, a sign near the road read: Welcome to Philadelphia. The sheer number of demons he sensed caused his Grace to recoil. Kimuel had been right, Zulrach had indeed turned this human city into his fortress and it would require a significant force to breach the defenses, and raze it to the ground.

Among the demons, he could sense humans, as well.

 _So, Zulrach has not long been in residence._

He could feel their fear, their desperation. He knew at least some were trying to escape, while others simply tried to hide. A small part of him felt regret for them, for the hopelessness of their situation. They hadn't asked for Heaven's war to come down to Earth. The first inkling they'd had of the actual danger they were in came nearly a human year after Lucifer was cast from Heaven, when Raphael landed and obliterated a city the humans called London. How they could have missed the thousands of demons prowling through their world was beyond his understanding. Then, when Raphael killed the Knight of Hell that had resided within that city by way of a human host…

Castiel frowned at the screams coming from the city. Any being who could abide the indwelling of a demon could only be just as equally corrupted. These tainted creatures did not deserve his pity.

So, he had been told.

As he watched the city, movement caught his eye and he saw a small group of people, two adults and three children, running across the road, heading for the trees on the other side. A swarm of demons poured over the road behind them and within moments, they had overrun the family. The high-pitched screams reached him and he closed his eyes in an attempt to shut them out. In the silence that followed, he took a deep breath to steel himself, to remind himself of his duty.

Humans were filth, an infection, a cancer. They deserved nothing less than to share in the complete eradication of their demonic counterparts.

So, he had been told.

He spread his wings, preparing to leave but was unable to tear his eyes from the city. He could feel the souls that remained inside, the terror that permeated the air. An icy tendril coiled around his Grace and the heat of his wrath died to a smolder. He lingered on the hilltop, telling himself that he was watching the movements of the demons, seeking vulnerabilities in the defenses. Night fell and the fires scattered throughout the city became more visible. The deep shadows of the buildings were broken by the flickering orange light, screams echoed in the darkness, high and shrill with pain and he suddenly felt as though he was standing on the edge of Hell.

Humankind deserved this fate.

So, he'd been told.

The rain poured down his feathers in inky rivulets and he spread his wings with a wet snap. He had seen everything he needed to, and a great deal he wished he had not. Zulrach had indeed acquired an unassailable position and it would take time to plan a successful attack. However, in that same amount of time, the defenses would only become stronger.

He flew back to his garrison, eager for a little bit of rest. With a forceful flap, he angled himself up higher into the sky until he broke through the clouds. The sun was warm and the water on his wings sparkled in the light, throwing off prismatic shafts of light with each movement. The air was clear up here, devoid of the pollutants that permeated the Earth below. This high up, he couldn't smell the Demons prowling around, or the millions of decaying human corpses. He caught a wind current, stretched his wings and glided along, unable to deny that he felt a little guilty for this small indulgence. Amriel and his entire squadron were dead, the Knight of Hell responsible was untouchable and he just wanted to forget it all for a moment.

When he came close to his destination, he pulled his wings in close and fell toward Earth. The wind whistled by him until it became a non-sound. He could feel the molecules stretching, almost as though they were trying to restrain him, then, just before he broke through the barrier, he slowed to a drift. He flew between the mountain peaks and surveyed each garrison as he flew over the valley, checking for anything amiss. Then, he banked up the mountain slope and landed at his garrison on the other side.

Raphael had selected this place as his center of operations because of the towering mountains that surrounded them. The humans had named this place Durmitor National Park, which Castiel found confusing. He had seen many human parks during his time on Earth and this place had nothing in common with them.

"Castiel."

He turned to see his second in command, Uriel, striding toward him. He nodded a greeting.

"Raphael wants to see you," Uriel told him, his dark face tense with barely concealed worry.

"Very well," Castiel replied, refusing to acknowledge the concern that the Angel was trying to hide.

He made his way to Raphael's pavilion and the two guards stopped him at the entrance.

"Raphael wished to see me," Castiel told them, hiding his impatience behind an impassive expression.

"Come in, Castiel," Raphael's deep voice came from inside.

Castiel strode between the guards, forcing them to lift their weapons over his head. The ebony skinned Archangel cocked an amused eyebrow at the subtle display of dominance.

"I was surprised," Raphael began, "when you did not return with Amriel's body."

A nervous shiver went through Castiel and he fought the urge to shift his feet to relieve the tension. Proper protocol dictated that he stay with the body until others came to claim it, but this was one of the loosest statutes. Had it been any other Angel, Raphael wouldn't have bothered to notice. Castiel's garrison was one of the strongest in Heaven's army and one of the few that was situated so closely to the Archangel's quarters. While it remained a position of honor, it was also the equivalent of standing near the headsman's block.

The garrison's original commander, Anna, had fallen not long after Lucifer's fall brought Heaven's war to Earth. Every Angel was under orders to kill her on sight if she was ever found. Castiel, as her second in command, had filled the position but the entire garrison was still under close scrutiny by the Archangels, Raphael in particular, to ensure that Anna's seed of treachery had not taken root elsewhere.

"I received a report from Kimuel that Zulrach was in the area," Castiel answered. "I left instructions that he guard Amriel and I went to investigate."

"You could not have sent Kimuel on this errand?" Raphael asked.

Castiel's Grace flared slightly in indignation at the petty question. What Angel guarded the remains of a brother or sister was unimportant. He felt Raphael's Grace pulse in warning.

"Kimuel only had his general location," Castiel replied calmly. "I needed to know more and I did not know what that would entail. I did not wish to risk him unnecessarily."

"And what did you learn?" Raphael inquired imperiously.

"Kimuel had told me that Zulrach was residing within a human city," Castiel said. "His initial report was that the position was unassailable. Unfortunately, I found him to be correct."

"No position is completely unassailable," Raphael said coolly, as though the idea was a personal offense.

"True," Castiel agreed. "But it would require more than what we have at our immediate disposal. We are spread too thinly to launch an effective siege."

"How many Demons?" Raphael inquired.

"Two thousand," Castiel answered.

Raphael actually looked surprised by the number. "Were there humans, as well?"

"Yes," Castiel replied simply, a sense of dread settling over him at the question. His next answers would have to be very careful.

"Did you take note of how many?" Raphael's black eyes took on a predatory gleam.

"Has their existence in the war become a matter of significance?" Castiel asked in mild surprise.

Raphael smirked. "No," he answered. "But you are usually so much more thorough."

Castiel's eyes narrowed. "They are filth. Vermin. And that is the attention I gave them," he replied coldly.

"Yes, anything that can hold a Demon deserves to be destroyed," Raphael agreed. He stood and strode to a small table and poured two drinks. "You did well," he said in a pleased tone, offering Castiel one of the crystal chalices.

Castiel accepted the drink with a nod of thanks. The nectar was cool and refreshing but he maintained his rigid bearing, unwilling to relax in the Archangel's presence.

Raphael chuckled. "Come now, Castiel," he urged jovially and Castiel tensed. "How many humans remained? We both know you counted them."

Castiel took a casual sip from his drink, trying to ignore the memory of the screams coming from the city, the small family torn apart as they tried to escape.

"One hundred," he answered.

Raphael nodded knowingly and sipped his drink. "I wonder if we shouldn't wait to attack," he said. "Give the Demons time to finish off the rest of them."

"I fail to see what difference it would make," Castiel commented.

Raphael shrugged. "Convenience."

Castiel nodded in understanding.

"You must be tired," Raphael remarked after a moment. "I won't keep you any longer."

Castiel only nodded again, set his glass down and turned to leave.

"Oh, Castiel," Raphael called him back.

Castiel tensed with dread, sure that the Archangel's amiability had only been a mask, a pretense to lull him into a false sense of safety. Raphael was cruel enough to play such a game.

"Yes?" he turned to face him, hiding his anxiety behind an expression of mild curiosity.

"Take your garrison to the United States," Raphael told him. "Zulrach has made it his residence for a reason. I want to know that reason."

Castiel's eyes widened in surprise. "We shall leave within the hour," he said.

Raphael dismissed him with a nod.

Castiel made his way back to his garrison, still reeling from his orders and what they meant. He would no longer be under Raphael's wrathful scrutiny. In fact, this placement was tantamount to a promotion. His garrison was safe, at last.

"Castiel," Balthazar intercepted him. "Are you alright?" he asked, not even trying to hide his worry.

"I am fine," Castiel assured him.

"Raphael doesn't normally keep you that long," Balthazar commented. "You look like you've been through the wringer, old chap. What's happened?"

"I need to address the garrison," Castiel told him.

"No, you need to rest," Balthazar told him. "What's going on? I'll pass the word around."

"We have been reassigned to the United States," Castiel replied, fighting to keep his voice steady as speaking the words aloud stunned him, yet again. "We leave within the hour."

"Alright, then," Balthazar said, clapping him on the shoulder and subtly steering him toward his quarters.

Castiel frowned at him.

"You rest up for a bit," Balthazar told him. "Uriel and I will see to the preparations."

"I'm fine," Castiel growled.

"You're barely keeping your feathers off the ground," Balthazar replied.

Castiel gave him a dry look. "That's a bit of an exaggeration."

"It isn't much of one," Balthazar retorted. "Go on. We know how to pack up."

Castiel huffed and nodded and Balthazar walked away. He stepped inside, closed the door and heaved a deep sigh, finally letting his relief wash over him. His shoulders fell and his wings sagged with the sudden release of the anxiety that he'd been burying ever since he'd received command of the garrison. The knowledge that his every movement, every word was being measured and picked apart in the search for treasonous tendencies had weighed heavily on him.

He had faced the wrathful scrutiny of the higher Angels, the looming threat of death before and borne the burden with ease because then, there had been nothing for them to find.

This time, however, that was not the case.

He sank down into a chair, suddenly feeling very alone as his relief and anxiety chased each other in a vicious circle, drawing the memory to the fore of his mind.

* * *

"Anna? What are you doing?"

She turned to face him, her face drawn with pain. "I can't, Castiel. I can't do this anymore. I won't."

"What are you talking about?" he asked. He'd caught her on the edge of the encampment behind their garrison lodgings in the middle of the night and desperately wanted it to mean something other than what it looked like.

She looked at him sadly. "This war wasn't meant to spill over onto Earth," she said. "Even though it has, it was never meant to dissolve into this…this slaughter. The humans had no part in this fight."

"Anna, you can't—"

"I won't, Castiel," she told him determinedly. "I won't kill them and I won't stand by and watch them be killed. They are our Father's creations, just as we are. They aren't filth! They aren't vermin! We were meant to be their protectors, not their executioners!"

"This is treason!" he hissed, panic welling within him.

She shook her head. "Then, so be it."

"Anna, don't do this," he begged. "They will hunt you down. They will force _us_ to hunt you down!" He had to stop her. He had to make her see reason.

"Let me go, Castiel," she said softly. "We have always been close. If you've ever cared for me, let me go."

A simple request. An impossible request.

"They will interrogate me," he told her. He had always cherished their closeness, never suspecting that it would be their undoing.

She saw the fear in his eyes and she stepped closer, wanting so badly to offer her oldest friend some comfort. "I know."

"I can't promise that I won't break," he warned sadly.

"I can," she replied and slammed her blade into his chest, just below his heart

He gasped in pain and instinctively raised his hand to smite the thing that was killing him. His Grace sputtered and failed and his hand fell to her shoulder as he gazed down into her eyes in shock. Tears slid down her porcelain cheeks as she held him there. His knees started to buckle and he gripped her arms hard, trying desperately to hold himself up, gasping for air through the white hot agony that enveloped him. He tried to call for help, tried to reach out with the remnants of his Grace, only to feel hers, always so much stronger, restraining him.

"Anna," he rasped her name as a plea.

Then, a sharp groan of pain was torn from him as she pulled the blade free. He grasped at her shirt as he sank to his knees, gazing up at her, his eyes wide with the pain and horror of the personal betrayal. She knelt in front of him, cupped his face in gentle hands and kissed his forehead.

"I won't let them punish you for my decisions," she whispered and stood up.

He reached for her, begging silently for her not to leave him, not to let him die, and crumpled to the ground as she vanished into the darkness. He was still trying to call for help and suddenly, the restraints on his Grace were gone. An instant later, he heard frantic wingbeats.

"Castiel!"

Balthazar rushed to him and pulled him up against his chest, pressing his hand over Castiel's wound. Castiel flinched at the pain, the only protest he could muster.

"HESTER!" Balthazar bellowed, his Grace flaring as he held his wheezing, dying friend, trying desperately to fuse their Graces together to keep him alive long enough for help to come.

Castiel awoke a few days later to find Balthazar sitting beside his bed. His friend's eyes widened with surprise and concern.

"Balthazar," he rasped and winced at the effort of speaking, the dizziness that washed over him.

Balthazar leaned close. "Sh-sh-sh, don't talk," he urged softly, a fear in his eyes that Castiel didn't understand.

The door crashed open and four Angels stormed inside.

"Move!" one of them ordered coldly.

Balthazar held up a beseeching hand. "No, wait," he begged. "He's injured! He _just_ woke up!"

Two of them dragged him away and pinned him to the far wall.

The other two dragged Castiel to his feet.

"Stop!" Balthazar cried. "You're going to kill him!"

"Raphael already plans to," one of them hissed.

They dragged Castiel to the Archangel's pavilion and threw him to the ground. He tried to suppress a cry of pain and choked on it instead.

"On your feet," Raphael growled, the air vibrating with his wrath.

Castiel nodded and struggled to do as he was ordered. The moment he stood, however, he collapsed to his knees with groan, his wings fluttering in an effort to keep him upright.

"Actually, keep him there," Raphael growled menacingly and hands grabbed Castiel's shoulders. Then, he nodded to the Angels who had dragged him in and they stepped forward and took hold of his wings.

A visible shudder went through the wounded Angel but he didn't make a sound.

"Where is she?" Raphael demanded.

Castiel shook his head weakly. "I don't know."

Raphael leaned forward. "Your garrison commander has abandoned her duties and Heaven. She has committed high treason. Do you honestly expect me to believe that she never confided to you in this matter? Her second in command?"

Castiel shook his head again, denying the accusation and the memory. "I tried to stop her," he said hoarsely. "I tried to make her see." He felt the Angels' hands tighten around his wings. "Break them, if you wish," he said in a devastated tone. "It will change nothing."

Raphael studied him for a moment, then dismissed the Angels on either side of him. Then, he approached Castiel, dragged him to his feet by his throat and sifted through his memories with a viciousness that made the Angel groan faintly. Castiel's denial was the truth he saw, but he could see little else of the night actually in question. The memories were jumbled and overlapped and he could feel a different Grace tainting them, something that usually only happened when an Angel tried to alter memories.

"Bring Balthazar to me," he ordered.

"I'm already here," Balthazar answered. "Get your hands off me," he snarled at the guard and snatched his arm away. "I told you he would want to see me."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Raphael demanded dangerously as Balthazar pushed his way forward.

"When Anna attacked him," Balthazar began, looking at his weakening friend, "he tried to call for help but she blocked him. When I finally got to him, he was nearly dead. I fused my Grace to his to keep him alive long enough for Hester to arrive."

Raphael stepped forward and seized Balthazar by the throat and sifted through his memories, as well, finding the weak presence of Castiel's Grace lingering over _his_ memories of those moments.

"I am satisfied," Raphael announced and released his grip on Balthazar. "Get him out of here."

Balthazar shook his head dizzily and lifted Castiel to his feet. "Come on, let's go," he said and started walking toward the door.

One of the guards stepped forward and reached for Castiel.

"Don't touch him!" Balthazar snarled. "I don't need your help. Hester!" he barked.

She appeared immediately and took Castiel's other arm across her shoulders.

"Thank you," Castiel whispered.

Balthazar gave him a humorless smile. "Well, we're not safe yet, old friend."

* * *

Castiel sighed, staring into the dark corner across the room. They were safe now, somewhat. They would never be truly safe and everyone that looked at them saw a garrison whose commander had betrayed Heaven.

What no one knew, was that he had let her go.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hihi! So, I actually feel kinda bad that this update and the last happened so quickly because I know it's inevitably gonna slow down. Especially since the semester starts in five days. *sadface*

The boys are back and they are in the thick of things! But really, would they be the Winchesters we love if they weren't? Let me answer that. Yes. Yes, they would. I could love them just as easily if Dean was a soccer dad who made pancakes on Saturdays and Sam had delightfully nerdy kids that won chess tournaments and had no social life because they read all the time. But that wouldn't be natural for them, would it? It would almost be...weird. Haha! Gotcha!

Shoutout to 1Corinthians 1313! Glad you're enjoying thus far!

Enjoy!

Oh, bytheby, I didn't think to point this out before. The Angels don't have vessels here, they have physical bodies but can still burn your eyes out with their Grace if they so choose. So, Cas looks like Cas, with that dark hair and those impossibly blue eyes, etc. (Thank you, God, for allowing Misha Collins to grace this earth.)

* * *

Dean Winchester crouched behind a crumbling brick wall. The ground was broken and buckled and the air was laced with the smells of sewage, smoke, general decay and burning flesh. Not to mention the fact that he hadn't bathed in days. He leaned over until he was almost laying prone and craned his head around to check the lay of the land beyond. He saw a small group of Demons but they were preoccupied with…something he'd rather not consider.

He rolled up into a crouch again and looked back the way he had come, motioning his brother forward.

Sam starting moving toward him, leading a small train of survivors. Dean held his breath, certain that his younger brother's greater height would defeat his attempts at staying low and undetected but Sam reached him with no difficulty. They all crouched behind the wall and Dean glanced down the line of survivors, doing a quick head-count. A young family: Mom, Dad, three kids, a six-year-old girl, a ten-year-old boy and a twelve-year-old girl, and two college age kids, a boyfriend/girlfriend duo.

"You know, I gotta ask," Dean began and Sam gave him a weary look. "What about this dystopian society made you think having kids was a good idea?"

"Dean," Sam said in low voice, "not now."

The father glared at him but the mother just petted the children's blonde heads. "We didn't plan on it," she said quietly. "It just happened."

Dean nodded, pursing his lips in way that said it made perfect sense but was far from a satisfactory answer. "Okay," he replied, in an oddly flippant tone and turned back to make sure the Demons were still occupied.

"How are we doing?" Sam asked quietly.

"I think we can slip by as long as we're quiet," Dean answered, drawing his attention to the Demons.

Something exploded in the distance and the six-year-old girl shrieked and started crying. Her brother just sat there with tears pouring down his face while his older sister held him in a tight embrace, her jaw trembling with tears.

"Sh!" Dean hissed, crabbing over to them. "Keep her quiet!" he ordered in a harsh whisper.

"She's afraid!" the father snapped in the same manner.

Dean got right in his face. "There are Demons down there," he informed him coldly, pointing in the direction they were headed and the little girl whimpered. "You want your kids to see tomorrow? Keep her quiet."

The man glared back at him but didn't say a word.

"Dean!" Sam hissed

Alarm filled Dean's eyes and he hurried back to his brother. The Demons were prowling in their direction, sniffing the air, their dead gray bodies tense with the hunt and their misshapen heads twisting around on grotesquely stretched necks. He could see the black claws on their hands, the shreds of gore hanging from them and the dark stains covering their fang-filled mouths.

"Back!" he ordered. "Everybody move back! Now!"

They scuttled backward until they were out of sight, then Dean took the lead again. Sam lingered for a moment, hoping that the Demons wouldn't be able to detect a stronger than normal smell of humans in the putrid air. Just in case, he picked up a brick. The Demons swarmed over the place where they had just been hiding and after a moment of finding no humans, they started to head back to whatever they had been doing. Then, one of them found a fresh puddle on the ground where the little boy had wet himself.

Before it could let out a triumphant screech, Sam threw the brick with all of his might toward a pile of debris and listened with cautious satisfaction when he heard it hit, knocking some of the pile askew and shattering glass of some sort. The pile had been more precarious than he'd thought because it started sliding apart, then it collapsed in the center. An angry, startled screech echoed up from it and the Demons perked up at the sound, then ran to check the commotion with hungry shrieks. Sam sighed with relief and ran to catch up to the group.

Dean turned to check the group and froze, a look of horror on his face.

"Where's my brother?" he demanded.

"He was right behind us," the college age boy said.

Dean shoved past him, his green eyes sparking like flint as he prepared to go back for Sam.

"You're gonna leave us here?!" the father cried.

Dean paused and gave him such a cold look that the man actually flinched away. Then, at the sound of running footsteps, Dean raised his shotgun to his shoulder with a speed born from a lifetime of practice. When he saw Sam running toward him, he lowered it, but just slightly, checking for signs of pursuit.

"Dean," Sam began, only to be cut off by his brother grabbing his shirt and bringing them nose-to-nose.

"Where were you?!" Dean demanded wrathfully, but Sam could hear the fear bubbling just beneath his anger.

"I bought us a couple of minutes," Sam replied. "We have to go now!"

Dean nodded and moved back to the front, leading them on a winding path through the debris of what used to be Northeast Philadelphia. Two hours later, the gray clouds started spilling rain over the ruined city and they stopped to take a quick break in a ruined building that used to have multiple stories. Now, it was a ground floor and a piece of a second floor that acted as a shelter from the rain.

"I'm thirsty," the little boy whimpered quietly.

Dean unscrewed the top off of his canteen and handed it to him. "Just a little bit, alright?" he said, squatting in front of the boy. "That's all we've got, for now."

The little boy nodded and took a few careful sips, just enough to wet his mouth.

"You can have a little more than that," Dean said dryly and he took a bigger swallow.

Sam passed his canteen to some of the others, as well.

"I don't understand," the college girl whispered.

Sam and Dean looked at her in shock. During the twelve hours they had been trying to get out of the city, she hadn't said a word.

"They were gone," she went on, her blue eyes haunted and her hoarse voice cracking painfully. "It was just us here. There were no Demons. They all left. Why did they come back?" She looked up at Sam, as though hoping he had an answer.

"I don't know," he said sadly. "I wish I did. What's your name?"

"Becka," she answered. "This is Chad," she introduced her boyfriend.

"I'm Sam," he introduced himself. "My brother and I are gonna do everything we can to get you out of here, okay?"

"Where are we gonna go?" her boyfriend asked dismally.

"Go?" Dean repeated darkly. "That's just it. You go. You go and you don't stop. Stopping gets you killed."

"How can you have a family if you're always on the run?" Becka asked hollowly.

Dean almost scoffed at the girl's naiveté. "Sorry. Never had the luxury of entertaining such a romantic notion."

"Dean," Sam scolded with a pleading frown.

"Let's go," Dean said, ignoring his brother.

They moved on, not talking, barely daring to breathe, ghosting between the gutted buildings and debris. Suddenly, the ground opened up before them and Dean held up his fist and they stopped, immediately falling to crouch behind a pile of overturned, rusted cars. Two parallel roads stretched across the land and to their right was a collapsed overpass. The rain was falling harder and Dean wiped the water out of his eyes.

"Any idea where we are?" he asked.

"This looks like Roosevelt Boulevard," Sam answered.

"I don't like it," Dean said. "Too open." He pulled a small pair of binoculars out his jacket pocket and scanned the area. "Son of a…"

"What is it?" Sam asked, tightening his grip on his shotgun.

"We got an Angel on that hill," Dean reported.

"What?" the father demanded. "Demons now an Angel?!"

"Keep your voice down!" Dean snapped. "We can't move until he leaves," he said. He spun with curse at the sound of screeching echoing behind them.

"Screw that," the father spat. "We're running. We can make it!"

"Shut up and sit down," Dean ordered. "You won't make it. They won't find us here as long as we're still and quiet. The Angel will get bored eventually and then we can leave."

"No," the man snapped. "We're this close to being out of this god-forsaken place—"

"You've never seen what one of those things can do, have you?" Sam demanded. "We have. And believe me, Don, we'd take fighting a Demon any day."

Don glowered and shook his head in stubborn disbelief but didn't say anything else.

Dean turned back and scanned the ground ahead of them again. "We can make it to those cars," he said to Sam and his brother edged closer to look. "See the van? Maybe we can wait there."

"Yeah, sounds good," Sam agreed. "Everybody, we gotta move. We've found place where we can wait, maybe dry off a little."

They all nodded, their expressions exhausted and haunted.

Dean and Sam started moving forward slowly. Sam kept an eye out for the Demons they could hear and Dean kept checking on the Angel with the binoculars. They reached the cluster of vehicles and to their relief, there was just enough space between them to get to the van. Sam and Dean stood on either side of the sliding door and at Sam's nod, Dean opened it and went in gun first.

"We're clear," he called and Sam motioned the group closer.

They were missing five people.

He looked around frantically and saw them running across the open ground. Don's wife was carrying the smallest girl while he carried the boy and half-dragged his oldest daughter.

"No!" Sam cried and dashed toward the front of the van.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, catching his brother by his shirt collar and dragging him back. Demons swarmed the area like ants, their hisses and screeches drowning out the drumming rain.

"Get them inside!" Dean ordered, shoving Sam back toward the open door.

As soon as Sam got the couple inside the van, Dean gave his backside a hard shove and closed the door behind him, ignoring his brother's indignant, terrified shout. He ran forward, some part of his brain still believing he could get to Don and his family in time and stopped before he'd taken five steps. The Demons surrounded and swallowed them from sight and he sank to the ground with his back pressed against the hood of a flipped truck, helpless to do anything but listen to the screams until they ended.

More Demons skittered past, several passing right by where they hid and he held his breath, unwilling to make the slightest noise. He waited until he could hear nothing but rain and crept back to the van. Just as he got there, it opened and Sam dragged him inside.

"What was that, Dean?!" he demanded, then pulled his brother into a rough embrace. "Don't ever do that again, you jerk! You scared me to death!"

"Those kids, Sammy," Dean said quietly and only then did Sam notice that his brother hadn't broken the embrace.

"I know," Sam answered softly, his heart twisting inside his chest.

"We had it, Sam!" Dean growled, sitting back on his heels, water streaming down his face from his hair. "We had it! We were home free! And then…the fricking Angel!" He shook his head in disbelief, at the unfairness. "How long have we been here? Nearly a whole day. A whole fricking day we've been trying to get out of here—get them out of here and right at the last minute, he's gotta go and pull that crap!"

"It was too much, Dean," Sam told him, keeping a firm, grounding grip on his arm. "With his family, the Demons and then the Angel. I think, deep down, he knew what it could do…and it was just more than he could handle."

"He wasn't handling it! We were!" Dean snarled. "That's what we've been doing this whole fricking time! Handling this! I mean, you wanna off yourself? That's fine. But the kids…"

"I know," Sam said again and Dean realized what his brother was saying. He understood everything. He felt the frustration, the grief, the helpless rage at the injustice of it all.

Dean nodded, took a deep breath and Sam finally let him go. He glanced at Becka and Chad and saw him wrapping her up in his jacket. He pulled her close in a one-armed embrace and his other hand rested protectively on her stomach. She looked up and caught Dean staring.

"I know you think it's pointless," she said quietly.

"I never said it was pointless," he corrected with a weak smile. "I just said it was a bad idea."

"The timing will never be good anymore," she said. "We'll never have a home again. We're being hunted by Demons and Angels and everything else. They've taken everything away from, but if we insist on going on, if we keep on living, then they haven't won yet. At least, that's the thought that gets me through the days."

"Whatever helps," Dean told her.

"What helps you?" she asked.

"Killing every evil SOB that crosses my path," he replied, a dark gleam in his eyes. He checked the hill again. "And _that_ SOB isn't moving. So we may as well get some rest before we leave."

"I'll take first watch," Sam said.

Dean nodded and pulled the curtains over the windows so a curious Demon couldn't look in and see them. Becka and Chad curled up on the backseat and Dean leaned against the side panel with his legs stretched out as far as they could go. He laid his shotgun across his lap, kept his hand on the grip and nodded off, his chin touching his chest. A few hours later, Sam woke him for his turn and promptly dozed off in the side chair.

"Sam," Dean hissed and his brother was instantly awake. "It's dark. We gotta go."

They woke Becka and Chad and left the van as quietly as possible. Fires seemed to glow everywhere they looked and it was hard to tell the shadows apart.

"Okay, we have to be quick," Dean said. "Don't make a sound. I don't know where the Angel is, but Demons are more active at night and the longer we stay now, the more chances we have of getting caught."

Sam nodded and they started moving across the open ground. Screams echoed through the night and the hissing and cackling of Demons set their teeth on edge.

"What are they doing? Why can't you get them out too?" Becka whispered in horror.

Dean paused behind a car and turned to her. "Okay, one, you don't want to know what they're doing. Two, we didn't come in here looking for survivors. We came to hunt supplies. If we'd known there was a Demon Prince in residence, we wouldn't have come at all."

"A Demon Prince?" Chad repeated. "That's where they all came from?"

"That'd be my guess," Dean told him. "They tend to follow the big bads around. The bigger the bad, usually the more Demons you find. Now, no more talking."

Once they were clear of the city, Sam and Dean clicked on flashlights and kept a tight grip on their guns.

Philadelphia may have been in ruins, but the area around it had nearly been turned into a moonscape. Nature had slowly started reclaiming the places were the towns and other cities had stood but aside from that, the land was barren. Whatever battle had taken place here had completely remolded the ground, cracking it with deep fissures and forcing up slabs of dirt and rock into miniature mountains.

"Is that a crater?" Becka asked, pointing to a place where the ground fell away into darkness.

Dean swung his light around. "Yup."

"What makes craters like that besides meteors?" Chad asked, pulling Becka close.

Dean gave him a dry look. "Angels."

"Come on, the car is close," Sam told them. "Just hope that's all that's close," he added under his breath.

Dean heard him. "Right," he agreed.

About half an hour later, Dean's light hit on something reflective and relief flooded him. Immediately after that, he brought his gun up.

"What?" Sam asked, mimicking the action and checking behind them.

"I covered the car before we left," Dean reminded him. "Don't play with me!" he yelled the threat into the night.

A lone figure stepped into his light. "Dean. Sam."

"Dad?" Dean exclaimed in shock.

John spared his sons a small smile. "Boys, glad to see you're in one piece."

Sam's shoulders sagged with relief. "Hey, Dad."

"Where'd you find those?" John asked, nodding at Becka and Chad.

"Inside," Dean told him. "Along with a few others that…didn't make it."

John cast a disapproving glance over his oldest son and Sam stiffened, stepping up to Dean's side.

"They ran off when they caught sight of open ground," he told John in a steely voice. "Demons got 'em."

John gave Sam a warning glare, not liking his tone. "What did you plan to do with them?" he asked, looking at Becka and Chad again.

"Get 'em some place safer," Dean replied.

John shook his head. "I'll take them with me."

Dean clenched his jaw at that. "We can handle it, Dad." He felt like a child being told to run along so the grownups could handle the job.

"I know," John told him. "But I need you boys doing something else."

They both straightened up at those words.

"It's okay," Sam told Chad. "You'll be safe with him."

They nodded and walked toward John. Chad kept an arm around Becka as they all followed him to an old truck. They climbed in and John turned back to his sons.

"Do you boys know what a Devil's Gate is?" John asked.

Dean and Sam exchanged startled looks.

"You mean, like a gate to Hell?" Sam asked.

"Yes, Sam, that's exactly what I mean," John answered. "There's a sealed one in Wyoming." He pulled out a map and spread it over the hood of the truck. "It's sitting in the middle of the biggest Devil's Trap I've ever seen," he said, tracing the lines on the map with his finger.

"Railroads," Dean commented approvingly.

"Yeah, you have Samuel Colt to thank for that," John said.

"He locked it down with iron. Smart," Dean said with an appreciative nod.

"Colt? As in…weapons manufacturer?" Sam queried.

John nodded. "He built the locks, but he also made a key. It's a gun. The Demons are all buzzing about it. But it's not just a key, he made bullets to go with it. And supposedly…they can kill anything."

"Well, _almost_ anything."

The three of them spun around, locking their guns on the newcomer.

The man smiled. "Hello John, Dean, Sammy…you've grown up. So good to see all of you." His eyes flashed a sick yellow in the beams of their flashlights.

"You!" Dean breathed dangerously.

Becka screamed inside the truck.

"Stay where you are!" John yelled at them without dropping his eyes.

"Now, John, here I am to do you another favor," Azazel said. "The least you could do is put down the gun. You'll just waste your ammo anyway."

"What's he talking about, Dad?" Sam demanded.

"I let you all go," Azazel replied. "The night of The Fall. Allow me to do you one more favor. Hunt for the gun. I don't care. It'll be a fruitless venture because, like I said, it won't kill everything. But…just be careful during your _hunting_ , that you don't overlook a much closer danger." His eyes glanced over each of them, lingering briefly on Sam. He smirked. "See you soon, John."

He disappeared and they huffed small sighs of relief.

"Fricking Demon," Dean hissed.

"You boys, start hunting for that Colt," John said, gathering up his map. "Keep me updated."

"What did he mean that it won't kill everything?" Sam asked.

"Don't know," John said. "But I know it'll kill _him_ and that's good enough. Watch yourselves."

"Yes sir," Dean said, watching as his dad climbed into the truck and drove away.

"Dean, what was that about?" Sam asked.

"Let's go, Sam," Dean told him and started for the driver door of the Impala.

"Dean!" Sam's voice was earnest now.

Dean stopped and shot him a hard look but deep in his eyes was a plea for Sam to let it go.

"Who. Was. That?" Sam demanded, suddenly feeling afraid.

Dean bowed his head and his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Yellow-eyes," he said in a pained voice. "He was there, the night Mom died. Dad said he's the one that killed her. I just remember the fire. How it wasn't there and then it was. Dad gave you to me and he got us outside. Then, when he started to go back in, Yellow-eyes showed up and tried to take you from me. Dad stopped him, but only because he let him. Said he was in a 'good mood' and that if he hadn't been, he would've made Dad watch us die."

Sam stared at him in horror. "How did I not know any of this?"

Dean gave a humorless chuckle. "Well, first, you were six months old," he said. "And then…I didn't want you to know." He climbed into the car.

Sam slid into the passenger seat and Dean started the engine and ran his hands through his wet hair. The rain was still falling steadily, pattering against the windshield.

"I couldn't sleep at night," Dean said quietly.

Sam looked at him, surprised that he was continuing the conversation and shocked by the emotion in his brother's eyes.

"I'd wake up a hundred times because I was convinced that, if I fell asleep, Yellow-eyes would come and take you away," Dean went on with a few forceful blinks. "I'd lost Mom. I couldn't lose you too."

They sat in silence for a moment as Sam waited to see if he would talk more.

"We'll get him, Dean," he promised and there was a chill in his voice, a hardness in his eyes that surprised his older brother. "We'll get this gun, and we'll end him."

Dean nodded, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, we will."

He put the car in gear and they drove away.

"Well, we didn't get any supplies," Sam commented.

"I'm not going back in there," Dean said.

"Me neither," Sam agreed. "So, what now?"

Dean pursed his lips in thought. "Let's find something we can eat. I'm starving."

"Sounds good," Sam said. "You know that wasn't your fault, back there."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked in a wary tone.

"Back in Philadelphia—"

"Sam, I'm not talking about this," Dean warned.

"It wasn't your fault," Sam repeated emphatically. "What you said back in the van? We'd spent nearly an entire day looking out for that guy and his family and he picked that moment to do what he did. He might have been scared, but it wasn't like that was a new development. Don't blame yourself for that. It's not on you."

Dean shook his head. "Those kids, Sammy…"

Sam nodded. "I know. It's still not on you."

"I don't see it that way," Dean told him.

"I know," Sam nodded again. "We should still have some food back at the house," he said after a moment of silence. "Let's just head back, eat, get some sleep and get moving."

Suddenly, Dean slammed on the brakes and the car slid in the mud. A man stood in the road, hunched over like he was preparing to charge the car and in the glare of the headlights, they could see the claws on his hands and his jagged teeth.

"On second thought," Dean began, sounding oddly pleased, "let's kill us a werewolf."


End file.
